


The Tragic Hero (Maedhros' story)

by orphan_account



Series: Alternative Perspective Character Studies [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternative Perspective, Aman (Tolkien), Character Study, First Kinslaying, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Maedhros' Suicide, PTSD Maedhros, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-torture maedhros, Russingon, Suicide, The Valar, Tolkien, albino celegorm, albino miriel, feanorians - Freeform - Freeform, maedhros character study, though she's only loosely referenced, u have no idea how hilarious that tag is to me, valar critical, valar negative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-11 04:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13516758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Note: The title has been changed to fit the archetype that I've classed him as.The Silmarillion is great, but it doesn't delve deep into why it's characters did what they did. In this story, I'll write about key events from Maedhros' perspective, covering his time in Aman all the way to his eventual suicide and exploring the reasons why he did what he did, and how he became one of the only two elves to ever attempt to take their own life.This will feature all of the headcanons I have for him as a character, as well as a few miscellaneous ones!





	1. Before the lights went out.

**Author's Note:**

> So this one is Maedhros, but I'm also now working on a version of events for Fingon! (I want to do Maglor after that, and then maybe Nerdanel.) It probably won't have so many instillations, seeing as he, well, dies, but I can't wait to share these all with you guys!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros muses about his life in Aman.

It was so, so bright. He wished he could turn off the light and lie asleep in the darkness like his grandfather had in the years before any of this. The light burnt through his eyelids and crept under his curtains and blocked out the stars for all but the smallest hours of the day. He could choose either to sleep, or to look at them, and that was such a cruel choice. Occasionally, he would force someone to stand over him, so that he could take a midday nap (the terms for sleep were different during the day).

He did not envy the Vanya, who slept in that cool glow throughout all hours- skin darkened from hours spent in the spotlight into rich, warm tones. He _did_ envy their beauty. _Why?_ Fingon had asked him.

_Because they are all warm and light, and I’m supposed to be dark, like the night, yet I’m not._

_Because of your hair?_ He had laughed.

_If it was dark, I would look my part._

Possibly, it was superficial, but it was true; he envied his darker haired brothers- he even envied Tyelko, who was white as snow all over, with thick, smooth curls and long eyelashes of pure light. He was painful to look at in full light. People said he looked like his grandmother, but that was not true. Maitimo looked like his grandmother, with intelligent eyes and a sly smile, but Tyelko had the complexion, so he got the credit.

It was a petty thing to be bitter about, but even the people had said it back when it was just him, so it felt bad to have it taken away. Their eyes were always drawn to Tyelko now, who stood out as a beam of starlight among the regular noldor. But that didn’t mean the people didn’t watch him.

He was the heir after all, not that anyone thought one was needed. No one died there.

When he had taken a mockery of the marriage band and pierced it through his ear, it became a trend among those who did not wish to marry- he started trends, as the heir should.

His father had started trends, too, though his were dangerous. Doubt and fear of the Valar that ruled over even him spread among his closest followers, and those who weren’t so close feared something terrible would happen to him for his treason. Maitimo feared it, too. They were already exiled- he could hardly imagine what would be worse.

He missed his mother so badly- his father, too, even though he was still near to his father; He spent all of his days working on something- anything- Maitimo suspected he simply didn’t want to be around his family anymore. Hundreds of years would do that to anyone, he supposed. He wouldn’t know, though, after all, he had no children of his own.  He desperately wanted to break into his room, forced him to look into his eyes. Force him to make it right again.

He wanted his parents to hold him like they used to when he was afraid.

He wanted them to come back and take care of Ambarussa, who he could overhear talking in the night about whether their parents even cared about them. _Our names are bad, and they don’t even look at us._ He desperately wanted to hold them and tell them that they were loved, it was just complicated. They’d tell him he was only parroting their father. They would be right, but they were too young to properly understand.

He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed that it had gotten dark.

He looked up, but there were no stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is part one, which was originally going to cover the death of Finwë, but then I thought it'd be nice to have a 'before' section, since this is about his development as a character throughout the story. It's not so much a before, though, rather than a 'very immediately before when things are not great but they are going to be so, so much worse and all this will seem trivial later' sort of thing. 
> 
> Also! Maedhros is roughly the maturity level of a 21 year old here- so able to do all the cool stuff, but still not fully grown. Since I've never been 21, I don't know if that will come across as authentic (while I reread I actually thought he sounded YOUNGER than me so whoops) but then again, he's supposed to read as rather privileged. 
> 
> The other instillations in this series will cover his development from here until his death (and maybe rebirth? I haven't decided, since Tolkien never makes reference to him being reborn, though he did technically keep his oath.)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy watching him grow up and develop as much as enjoyed writing it!


	2. Permanent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A terrible oath and a terrible gut feeling sow the seeds for future actions and future doubts. Everything has changed and Maedhros can sense ruination mere metres away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm ramping up the Russingon here, but it's still pretty ambiguous. Be warned: there are somewhat graphic descriptions of Finwë's corpse.

He hadn’t spoken in a day, and he wouldn’t even have noticed if it weren’t for Findekáno asking him how he was holding up amongst the commotion. His voice was raw from disuse. He had beautiful eyes, even in the darkness of the eternal night that they now faced: the richest and most beautiful turquoise, that reflected flecks of silver in the light, and were luminous white in the dark. And it was so fucking dark.

It was scandalous, though, that he had shown more concern on his face when speaking to his dearest cousin than when mourning the death of his beloved grandfather. Then again: what would be appropriate? None of them had dealt with anything like this before (except his father), so had no standards to which they could hold each other up. Nonetheless, there’d be whispers. Those sharp-tongued false nobles who’d love to tear a kid apart- not that he was really a kid. He hadn’t noticed how they whispered until that day, when suddenly he could recall every single rumour that they had churned out during his lifetime.

It was as if Finwë had been some sort of emotional shield- a sponge for all of the poison that was thrown at them that had suddenly been squeezed out over a bucket. When they mopped up the blood, the buckets were stained red. It was more blood than he’d ever seen in his life, even when hunting.

He’d never seen his father cry before then, let alone scream.

He hadn’t cried yet, but he supposed that was because some small part of him was still expecting to find his grandfather waiting back home, asking them for news, warning them that this was a fight they shouldn’t be making.

People were yelling at each other, but he just leant into Findekáno- he put his hand on his back. He seemed so solid, but he was shaking underneath his cloak. He would let them talk about it- was he not supposed to take comfort in a dear friend in such circumstances? He didn’t want to move, but his father called him forward and he had to go.

Manwë didn’t like the things he was saying, from the look of disdain on his face, though he said nothing. Maitimo wasn’t focussed on what they were talking about, instead he was watching the sky- the black fog had cleared, and he could see the stars above. They were peaceful and unchanged, still sparkling down from above.

His father was going too far, he could feel it, but he didn’t care to stop him. This time there would be a more permanent solution for his disobedience. He wanted to throw up.

He hadn’t ever thrown up before that day- it was an incredibly rare event among the Quendi. It was cause for concern, but when someone’s brains were spilt across the tiles in front of you, you were allowed to throw up.

He did what he was told despite his misgivings.

His voice cracked and skipped over some of the words, but he kept following his speech- or was it more of a song? A chant, perhaps. His tongue didn’t hit the letters right, and he made a few pronunciation errors that he was sure his father would resent. He wouldn’t usually slip like this. He could see Fin watching him.

Was what he was saying even realistic? What was this promise of blood and anger?

They wouldn’t hurt anyone they didn’t absolutely have to- that was implicit subtext. Surely, no one who had heard any such things, spoken by a man such as Fëanáro Curufinwë would possibly refuse them. A man such as the high king.

High king, his father.

Because Finwë wasn’t any more. Only his father knew what that really meant; all he could do was trust that he knew what he was doing. What were the silmarils?

His father had once sat him down and explained to him that these jewels would change everything. _Maitimo, they’ll make sure no one has to suffer ever again- bring prosperity to our world that no one can ever touch. I just need to finish them._

Had he ever finished? This certainly wasn’t prosperity.

He met Fin’s eyes in the crowd, reflecting bright light that spilled down across his cheeks, illuminating his smooth skin in tones of silver. Silver really suited him, it was a shame he never wore it. He didn’t look horrified, or even shocked; his face was set with grim determination. His oath was their oath. He hadn’t been watching Fin the whole time- it was possible he could have sworn his own oath under his breath. Knowing him, it was possible that his was even worse.

He felt a horrible stirring in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is the first kinslaying (yay?), I'm also considering beginning Fingon's version of events to compliment this one, since Fingon (or at least my interpretation of him) is one of the most interesting characters to me. I like to think my headcanons for him are quite unique, so I hope you'll like them!


	3. Cause and effect.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros experiences the aftermath of battle for the first time, as well as serious injury and homesickness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't describe any actual violence, but I do describe what the aftermath was like, so the same warning as the last chapter applies here.

His cheek was slick with hot blood that filled his nostrils with the smell of metal; it spilt steadily down, tracing over the contours of his cheek. He couldn’t tell if it was his or someone else’s. The boat rocked back and forth, putting him into a blood-loss induced lull. He must’ve been injured somewhere. He wanted to throw up. His eyes wouldn’t focus on anything.

There was bile in his throat, burning it up from the inside, which he recognised only because Tyelko had once dared him to drink pure lemon juice.

He moved to wipe the blood away, but his fingers slipped through the surface of his skin. He cried out.

“Hold still,” Ambarto knelt down in front of him, pressing a clinically scented cloth into his wound- he flinched, but his cheek went numb almost instantly. He took a sharp breath. His hands were covered in blood, though hopefully only because he had been treating everyone else’s wounds. He wasn’t going to ask any time soon. He looked at a loss, staring at the wound.

“What’s wrong?” Though the words didn’t come out quite right.

“That’s bone- I can see bone,” He shook his head and began rummaging through a bag.

Maitimo nodded: he’d seen men with their heads torn from their necks, clinging on only by the hinge of a spinal column. He was uniquely beautiful, laying against the red paving stones- cool grey eyes watching the sky. I’d swung my sword at him, not knowing what exactly what would happen. I’d arranged myself into a fighting stance, ready for his retaliation. It didn’t come. He just kept laying there, staring into the sky, the light of the stars above reflected in his eyes.

He’d only seen animal bone before.

Ambarto knew how to heal him, though, cleaning his wound with special ointments and stitching it closed- they all knew healing; with six siblings, how could you not learn to heal. Tyelko, especially, was always injured. When he’d tied off the last stitch, he slumped back against the boat, and rested his head on Maitimo’s shoulder.

“I want to go home,” He whispered, as if afraid someone might take offence to his plea. Maitimo wrapped his arms around him.

“I know.”

“I miss our mother.”

“I know.”

“I hate this,” he lowered his voice even further. Maitimo could smell the blood on his clothes.

“I know- it’s okay. We’ll be able to go home soon.”

“Look at what we’ve done,” his voice breaks on the fourth syllable- Maitimo hated how he used _we._ He hated that even Ambarto could’ve been involved in such terrible crimes.

“We only have to fight Morgoth, now: it’ll be okay after that. Then we can go home and see mother again.”

“Do you want to go home?”

He started-

“Now, I mean,” Ambarto’s gaze was so intense.

He remembered standing on a man’s hand while running and feeling the bones crack under his boots- he hadn’t even cried out, “we can’t.”

He learnt that it was easy to die- he only hoped that all that death was worth something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written the first chapter for Fingon's version, now, so I should be able to upload that soon. Also, we're going to see a lot of change in Maedhros from here on out as the stakes get higher. Next chapter will be the ship burning. 
> 
> Sidenote: for the purpose of this not being a mammoth of a fic, it had been shortened to only include very important events in his life, however I have also planned a sort of 'lull' in the middle, just to explore how he's doing half way through his story- kind of like a check in on him.


	4. Fell and Fey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think the title gives this away- but this is set post-ship burning. Maedhros helps his youngest brother through some tough times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This pne's up early since I'm in a really good place creatively, so lets hope it lasts!

He hadn’t spoken to his father in days, though he thought about him near constantly- well, not _constantly._ He thought about him about half of the time, and the other half was divided between Fin and Ambarto.

When he thought about his father, he felt some deep pain coming from so far within he couldn’t discern where, tearing all the energy out of him and forcing him to his knees when it caught him off-guard. He supposed that must his fëa. His father had become something less than Quendi; something like one of his machines, following some terrible clockwork motion over, and over until it fell apart. He found his dreams plagued by memories of his childhood- all the hours he spent following his father around the house, sitting in the corner of the forge and stringing chains through rings to make jewellery. But then his father would become Morgoth and swing his hammer at him.

He desperately wanted to run back home and straight into his mother’s arms. Or Findekáno’s. Whoever he met first.

He also considered running away, further into Beleriand, until he found somewhere he could go to hide for the rest of his life until he inevitably faded away into nothing.

He just wanted to _run._

Thinking of Findekáno made him want to scream. He wanted to rush out into the night air and yell his innocence at the top of his lungs, until his voice died- until he died. He thought about that look on his face when he left for exile: something not so dissimilar from mourning. He thought about the way his hands felt as they braided his hair into intricate patterns that only he seemed to know- he had claimed that when you had thick hair, you learnt new tricks.

He found comfort in imagining that Fin was there beside him- he even took comfort imagining what would be their first fight, if he ever made it to Beleriand. Probably the ships. Definitely the ships.

Then he would think about his father again, and then Ambarto.

Thinking of Ambarto hurt.

It just… Hurt.

It was some sort of ache that plagued every inch of his body, and strangled him, forcing him to gasp for air when there was so much freely available around him.

 _We can’t call him Ambarussa anymore_ , Kano had murmured over breakfast, staring into the fire with dead eyes. He was right, too, because that name had always meant the both of them. They adopted his old nickname, Minyarussa, to call him by. He told himself it was only temporary, but what did that mean? When would they be able to call him Ambarussa again?

And he slept for days at a time.

He just lay in his tent, asleep amongst everyone else’s furs, which they placed over him to keep him warm. He didn’t even seem to dream.

And when he was awake, he barely opened his eyes, and refused to let anyone wearing any reflective metals anywhere near him. He was trying to survive, Maitimo noted, by keeping himself just short of being totally consumed by his grief. Maitimo would sit on the floor beside his bed during those few waking hours, trying to talk to him about stupid, petty things. There were so few things to talk about, though, now that everything had become serious.

So, he described the stars, listing every constellation that he had been able to map, and sketching them out on scraps of letter paper for him, joining up the dots. At first, it was hard to spend time around him, but then he began to consciously notice all of the subtle differences about him: his eyes were slightly greyer, he had one freckle half a centimetre out of line underneath his right eye, his hair was more loosely curled than wavy.

Over time, Maitimo put his father out of his mind, and used the extra space for Minyarussa. He made conscious efforts to find new plants, and sketch them out for him, as well as take note of all of the different birds and their calls. Gradually, Minyarussa began to talk again, asking questions about all of the things his brother showed him.

Maitimo forced himself to put Findekáno out of his mind, too, though not entirely, because it hurt him too much to pretend that he hadn’t meant what he had. He began drafting letters endlessly- writing and rewriting explanations, updates, declarations, apologies- even just conversations: all of the things he wished that he could say. It brought him comfort.

He was finally able to take Minyarussa hunting again, just days before they were set to attack Morgoth. They didn’t manage to catch anything, but Minyarussa had gotten some fresh air, and that was what counted.

With time, Maitimo forgave his father, overhearing his sobs when he thought no one was around, and understanding that some things were just horrible mistakes. Minyarussa could not forgive, which was fair, though he allowed some sort of façade of family to continue on for the others’ sakes. With time, their wound was stitched, though Maitimo felt that these were faulty stitches.

He knew that, some day, he would have to tear them out and stitch them in again properly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A third of the way through! I read that for an elf, having emotional issues can incapacitate them due to their Fear having physical impacts on the body as well as physical needs, so I definitely wanted to explore that with Amras' reaction to his brother's death. I think the Feanorians must be pretty strong, though; to experience so much pain and remain alive. 
> 
> Next, I'll be covering Feanor's death, which will mark the end of the part of this fic where everything is happening in quick succession. From then on out there should be chronological gaps of many years between chapters. (As for myself, I'll try to keep posting regularly!)


	5. Permanent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros debates the best course of action with his brothers, though no one is in the mood to cooperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm using the title 'permanent' to signify a death because (imagine the poetic cinema meme here).

This was not what their father would’ve wanted; his life honoured with fierce debates about the pros and cons of making a deal with the dark lord. Everyone had a completely different opinion, somehow (you’d expect with six people at least two would share a view.)

Tyelko wanted to attack, of course: it was the most logical option- and, if it happened to be a trap, at least they would already be on even terms by sending an army.

Kano reminded him that they weren’t as strong in numbers, and also that he thought it was a terrible idea and they should just pretend not to have heard.

Curvo said that, whatever they did, he was going to stay behind with Tyelpe but, by the way, he thought they should avoid meeting entirely and instead find Morgoth’s stronghold and attack there.

Moryo said they should send a scout to bargain instead, just to see if the offer had been genuine.

Minyarussa said he didn’t care what they did.

Maitimo thought there should be some sort of medium that they could find, that combined enough of their ideas to form a majority. He didn’t dare mention that they had to do what he said regardless. He wasn’t sure they would take well to that, especially since their father’s armour and sword were still lying dumped in a half-melted pile in the corner of the tent.

They’d only been back for what he estimated was around twelve hours.

He scrawled out each of their ideas on a sheet of parchment, and then immediately crossed through Curvo’s and Kano’s, which left him with direct attack or send a scout. Neither seemed great. None of his brothers had suggested trusting that the offer was genuine, though he hadn’t expected them to.

“You’re not going to like this,” he turned to Kano, “but we do have to try.”

“Because the oath says so,” Minyarussa sighed, then left, which was fair. He knocked the pile of armour over on his way out.

“We could pretend to bargain with him- “

“And then attack?” Tyelko interjected.

“Actually, that’s exactly what I was thinking.

“An ambush… Maybe having the element of surprise could mean we could make-do with less manpower?” Kano ran his hands through his hair- he had kept it tightly braided to avoid maintenance, but now he was wearing it loose again. I

“I’m not- “Curvo started.

“I’ll go.”

“What? Alone?”

“With back-up, but not from any of you, of course.”

“Of course?” Tyelko scowled, “what makes us such poor choices.”

“I just want to know that you’re all safe, in case something happens.”

“Oh, you’re so _wise_ and _mature-_ ”

“ _Tyelkormo-”_

“-and _heroic,”_ he finished. He avoided kicking the pile on the way out. Curvo and Moryo went with hm.

“They know I’m right,” he groaned.

Kano shook his head, “just go and do it; they can’t object.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just reread all of Maedhros' parts in the silm to refresh my memory and now I'm sad. I don't actually think the brothers would've gotten adequate time to mourn Feanor, what with Morgoth's messanger coming almost immediately after they got back: I think they did all the grieving in one big go after Mae was kidnapped. (I'll probably cover this more when I get to doing Maglor.)
> 
> Next chapter is about his recovery, skipping his time in Angband, because writing physical torture makes me incredibly uncomfortable.


	6. Memories of half-death.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros recovers from his stay in Angband.

When he awoke, it was light again, so he thought he had died. Maybe that wasn’t so bad, he thought, since he obviously hadn’t found himself in ‘everlasting darkness’ as promised. It was peaceful and comfortable, with plenty of light and a warm bed to sleep in, with soft sheets layered over him.

But he saw Kano leaning against the window-sill and decided that there was no reason for him to be dead, so he must be dreaming again. He always dreamt of peaceful scenes of home, and every time he hoped that he had died. He usually started out by seeing Ambarto or his father though, which made the idea of his death more convincing. He wondered why he hadn’t been allowed to die, yet; surely, he must meet the criteria on all counts.

He closed his eyes again.

He felt someone stroking his hand- not anyone: Findekáno. He could tell by the way he traced words over his fingertips- or really just one word- sorry-- over, and over again. Maybe he had really died, and Finno had died, too. He couldn’t find the energy for words, so he just squeezed his hand back.

“Oh, thank Eru,” he laughed, which seemed strange if they were dead, and then called for Kano. Hell, laughing was strange for Finno altogether. Something was different. “You’re okay,” he said, “you’re safe now.”

Maybe death changed people.

He thought about his father.

Maybe Kano _had_ died.

 

* * *

 

 When he came to for real, he couldn’t figure out how long he had slept. No one would tell him, not even Finno. Then again, he hadn’t had much luck in finding the voice he needed to ask.

He couldn’t speak for the first day- no amount of water could heal his torn vocal cords, though Finno assured him that he had _sung._ He didn’t believe that- he couldn’t remember it. A lot of his time in Angband was gone from his memory, with only the most minute details managing to remain in his mind, such as the colour of Thauron’s robes: he recalled thinking they were black at first, but then, as he moved in the firelight, they illuminated in shades of red and orange like a demonic oil-slick. He remembered that Finno still had the stitches in a gash across his brow, and that they were messily done. He remembered that he was wearing his hair up, instead of braided.

He tried to eat, but he felt waves of nausea with every mouthful he swallowed.

Finno talked to him for hours about their families, and everything that he needed to know. He listed all of the people who were dead, and all the people he shouldn’t bring them up to. There was happy news, too: Orodreth was getting married to one of the women they’d met after they crossed over, and everyone was excited to finally have a reason to celebrate.

_Not that you’re return isn’t a reason to celebrate,_ he didn’t say, but it was implied and understood.

On the second day, he could speak again, so immediately dictated a letter summoning his uncle ( _half-uncle,_ he heard his father chastise him in his head.) Since Finno refused to leave his side, he bribed Kano to take it, trusting only him not to look at its contents.

Before he left, Kano had told him that Minyarussa hadn’t left his side until he’d woken up the first time, just to make sure he’d make it. He said that he had gone hunting, but that he’d be thrilled to see him awake when he returned.

He was right. Minyarussa spent hours taking about all of the things he’d done while he was gone, and then more hours apologising for not being able to rescue him himself. Then he wept, and Maitimo pulled him into a tight hug and told him to get some rest, which just made him cry harder. He did as he was told though, and curled up on a couch in the corner, using Finno’s cloak (generously donated) as a blanket.

In hushed tones, Finno told him more about Orodreth’s new love, explaining that her people lived not too far away, and that they spoke a language that was no all dissimilar from their own, though it took them some time to learn it well enough to converse. Maitimo sent for someone to teach it to him.

His tutor was only an adolescent, with bright amber eyes and thick, dark curls that fell to his waist. First, he helped him with basic phrases, then with the alphabet, then he offered to translate his name.

He didn’t give him his name.

He wanted to wear the name Finno called him forever, like some sort of token of dedication; something that he would always carry to show his gratitude- but he couldn’t bear to part with his mother-name, the only token of her he had left.

“Mait- “he hesitated, wondering if he should talk to someone about this first. He would’ve spoken to Kano, but he was gone for now. He made his mind up: “Maitrus.”

Finno (Fingon, he supposed) raised his eyebrows.

“That would be- ah, do you want to translate the words or keep it sounding the same?”

“Sounding the same.”

“Then that would be _Maedhros,_ I think,” his tutor smiled, then listed the translations of the names of everyone he knew, and Fingon told him what translation they were choosing to use. He smiled a little when he told him that Minyarussa had chosen to be called _Amras._

Once the tutor had gone, Fingon kissed him gently goodnight. His lips were so much rougher than before, and he tasted slightly of salt, but his kisses were a welcome distraction from all of the bad that had happened around them.

On the third day, his voice was clear again, so he began dictating letters to send to the people who mattered. When he heard Nolofinwë- Fingolfin had arrived, he rushed from his room and almost fell down a flight of steps, had Fingon not caught him. He made his declaration from where he stood on the steps, with his brothers to bear witness.

Then he was free, and he went riding with Fingon, trying to remember all of the things that he saw in his dreams- images of pain and suffering that played over and over until he woke up in a cold sweat, but that vanished from his mind within moments of waking. Fingon slept in bed with him, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest so that he wouldn’t trash around too much and hurt himself in his sleep.

It’d been so long since they’d last been able to hold each other.

Life went on- his brothers fought, he tried to keep them in check, he moved away from Fingon again, though not really. They took turns visiting each other for months at a time.

Occasionally, in the middle of the night, he would wake up and describe every part of his dream in vivid detail to Fingon, and then he’d remember them in his waking hours and they would stop plaguing his dreams. Fingon swore he didn’t mind, but his breathing would catch on some of the things he described, and he wouldn’t speak for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a bit of a half-way check-in set after the Union of Maedhros to see how he's doing. He and Fingon are a lot more mature now, what with all they've been through, and they're going to go through even more, so I think I need a break to describe a happier part of their lives.
> 
> Now, I feel like I should bring up Gil-Galad. I don't have a particularly strong opinion on who his parents are, other than that Fingon never married and elves just don't /have/ bastards, so it doesn't make sense for him to be Fingon's biological son. HOWEVER I very much like this theory (which I can't find the link to anywhere so if you know it, please give me the link) which essentially posits that elves can have multiple fathers due to the way their fear are cultivated! He was briefly conceived as a descendant of Feanor, too, which makes me think about who exactly were the bundle of men that raised him. My guess is Orodreth, Finrod, Fingon and Maedhros (in order of contribution.) Lucky kid! He'll be showing up next chapter.


	7. The lull.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros appreciates the period of calm that he's cultivated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to preface this by saying the use of the words 'sobriety' and 'woozy' are not to imply that Fingon has become an alcoholic, rather that he's more disconnected from reality in that way you are when you're really sleepy (except it's his fea that's tired rather than his hroa)

People asked him bad things- usually some variation on _how could you be so good when your father was so flawed?_ Usually, they didn’t mean that he was good. He could hear their undertones, their promises of disdain; they didn’t believe for one second that he wasn’t going to screw them over in some way. Maybe he would, in some petty way that didn’t matter just to fuck with them. He couldn’t bring himself to feel overly indignant, though, when things were working out so well.

He’d answer the same every time: _my father raised me well._ They wouldn’t press their point.

If they knew half as much as he did about Fëanor…

He’d grown to forgive his father in time, indulging in sweet memories from his childhood when the weight of everything became too much to bear. He would rant to Fingon about it when he’s listen, and then Fingon would punch him gently in the arm and tell him he’d gotten nostalgic.

Fingon was less serious, which was strange. He seemed only half-there, using all his energy on work, and then dissolving into a woozy, distant state the rest of the time. He would wander into his office late at night and sit in the corner and sing quietly to himself. He had no care for whether he sounded good or not, only that he managed to express all of the pain he could possibly feel in his words. He pitied him; he hadn’t been allowed any time to grieve properly, so now it ate away at him from the inside.

He refused to be healed, too- said there was nothing wrong with him. Then again, he had also refused healing when he could. They were both fatherless- missing the heads of their houses that they had so relied on when they were younger. Now they were the heads. Maedhros wished they could’ve had ten more years to learn- to get better at what they did.

He was trying to make things work again.

He worked late- Fingon complained about it sometimes, staring straight through him. Sometimes he complained about it ‘sober’, too, from his position on the throne. He looked so good with the crown laid on his brow, though so much older, too. In the worst evenings, he’d force Maedhros away from his desk and start sealing letters himself.

He’d wear Maedhros’ signet ring on his finger. Sometimes he’d ‘forget’ to take it off. They both wished they could marry, but then it would look like Maedhros had planned some power plot from the very beginning, and everything he had worked for would fall apart. He wished Fingon would abdicate, and finally get some peace, but he claimed he trusted no successor. He was soft on little Gil-galad, though.

He seemed almost okay when he was watching the child. They did it together, since that was easier, and it gave them both an excuse to take a break, but really it was because then they could feel like a little family, if only for a while. They’d take him riding, and tell him stories about Aman and the trees, and Fingon would always work his way around to Argon or Aredhel and tell him about them.

 _You should’ve met them,_ he’d say, over and over until Maedhros changed the subject.

He had missed when his brothers had been small enough for him to care for them like that. Amras was full-grown and ran his own realm alone, away from everyone else. Babysitting was a welcome chore, though, in the case of Gil-galad, they weren’t technically supposed to be doing any. Before his death, he was left with Finrod, who would then leave him with Fingon when something unexpected came up- he assured them that he wouldn’t usually do this, but this was an urgent matter, and he didn’t trust the child’s well-being with anyone else. Now he was just dropped straight with them.

Maedhros would go to bed when Fingon began to fall asleep at the desk, kissing his cheekbone and retiring to his chambers. Or, on nights when Fingon didn’t come to his office, he’d wander to his chambers, and they’d light the fire and talk. He was quieter on those nights, speaking in hushed tones- Maedhros got the distinct impression that those times where when he was most sober. Sometimes he’d talk about his father- never reminiscing, but theorising.

Things like: _was he just as angry at Turgon as I was? Was he disappointed that I fell for you? Would he be proud of me now?_

Then he’d get distracted: _He never met his grandson. I have a nephew, Maedhros, and I’ve never met him. He’s all that’s left of my sister and I’ve never even seen his face._

On other nights, he’d talk about him. He’d speak in Quenya, thinking of all the clichés he could: _my world- my light- my stars._ Maedhros wished he could write him poetry back, but he didn’t have music in his heart anymore. He would make his love declarations as promises, small things like promising not to work so late, or swearing that he wouldn’t take any risks. Fingon made him swear small things, because one night he told him that he’d break his oath for him.

Then Fingon was quiet because he wanted that so badly, but he didn’t want to test the reality of that claim. He spoke low, barely audible over the crackling of the fire: _don’t break your oath for me._ They both knew he was bluffing, but they both wanted to believe it was the truth. They both wanted to believe in some sort of oath-less future, where they _could_ get married, and they _could_ raise a child without worrying about politics or wars.

There was an unspoken agreement between them, a silent promise of _when this is over…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orodreth didn't actually like the Feanorians so much, so I doubt he would've left his son with them in any other circumstances. Also, Finrod would've consulted his brother first before handing Gil-galad over to Fingon, don't worry! He probably would've offered to leave them with Curvo and Tyelko, but I think Orodreth would've hated that even more.
> 
> I'm really dreading writing the next chapter, so I might procrastinate by starting on Maglor's story :')


	8. Permanent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Maedhros struggles to come to terms with his losses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was sad- also WARNING: there is a paragraph in here that quite graphically describes Fingon's corspe. If you do not wish to read it, skip over the paragraph immediately below the line 'In death, he wasn't handsome.' The rest is pretty sfw.

“Maedhros,” he didn’t want to hear a single word from anyone, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear people speak to him ever again, “Maedhros, you’ll catch something.”

He was delicate, he supposed, since Angband. He caught illnesses no one else caught and found himself suffering in ways that no one else did, and yet he never died. He would catch something; the water wasn’t clean, and it chilled him straight to the bone- he could see ice floating near him. He didn’t care.

“Maedhros, we need to go,” Maglor was finding it hard to hide the edge of frustration in his voice.

_Let him be frustrated._

He found it hard to sympathise with any of his brothers, anymore. They hadn’t searched with him- well, Maglor had, but only because he wanted to make sure he didn’t stay on the battlefield for too long. He’d been desensitised to remains until then. When he was forced to look at the face of every single one of the deceased, things seemed much more real. Many of them had been beautiful- he had never noticed their beauty when they were alive. He recognised so many of them, and yet not enough- not enough by a long shot.

He’d wondered whether it would be better to find Fingon dead or not at all. If he found him dead, at least he would know that was it- but if he didn’t find him then, then at least he would have hope that they could find each other again someday. But he never wanted anyone to go through the hell that he had been through, let alone someone that he loved so much.

And he loved him so, so much.

Had he ever told him that? He must’ve at some point, or had he expected it to be implicit? He bit his tongue- he’d say it as soon as he found him. He’d find him alive, of course, what other possibility was there? He’d say it as soon as they saw each other again, over and over until his voice ran out.

“Nelyo?” Oh, Maglor was cruel- Amras squeezed his shoulder, “are you okay?”

He caved into the touch of his youngest brother, wrapping his arms around his legs.

“Careful or I’ll fall in!” he laughed tentatively, as if he wasn’t sure that he was aloud to joke, “I can’t take the cold as well as you,” He held out a hand, and Maedhros took it, “we have to move on.”

He nodded, and then shot Maglor a look. They both knew that Amras was his weakness- especially after they had been parted for so long. He had been parted from all of them for so long. Now, they travelled together again, like when they were children in Aman, though this time their wanderings were a lot more sombre in nature.

He had thought of a plan of what to do if they didn’t find Fingon- it started with visiting every elven settlement they knew of, just to see if he’d gone into hiding. Maglor thought that was too excessive, since Fingon wouldn’t run from his responsibilities like that. Maedhros reminded him that he hadn’t known Fingon as well as him, and then that Fingon had never wanted to be king in the first place.

_And then what?_ Maglor had asked, rolling over another body and studying its face, _could be him- they’re badly mauled._

_He’s taller than that,_ He had responded. Besides, the corpse had brown eyes, _I’d go to Angband._

_Angband? Why?_

_Why do you think? We need to rescue Húrin, anyway._ He hadn’t even been sure he’d execute the first half of the plan, because if anything was certain about Fingon, it was that he wouldn’t leave him in the dark. Instead, he would’ve waited in Himring with his brothers for a letter to come, and then when it didn’t- well, then he’d go straight to Angband.

He would give anything to have that hope back- the hope that there was still a chance that he could be rescued.

The battlefield hadn’t been quiet- there were still people fighting in remote corners, spread far apart and unable to retreat. His men- his brothers, too- were already safe, though. Maglor kept insisting that it wasn’t safe to keep searching like this, but he turn back. He supposed Maglor must’ve wished he had- when they finally found him.

In other places, the bodies had been piled up on top of each other, but around him there had been a circle of about ten feet which was completely empty. He supposed he should’ve been grateful at least that they’d left him there, rather than used his body for their own perverted amusement. He also supposed they’d left it there directly to hurt him.

In death, he wasn’t handsome.

His skin had peeled off his body in places, revealing the burnt flesh beneath, and he was lying face up on the ground, hair trodden into the mud around him and stained with his blood, face set in a way that made him think he must’ve been cursing when he died. And he _was_ dead, there was no disputing that. The back of his dead was split clean open, and contorted, as if someone had kicked it in after they’d killed him. There were fragments of bone littering the ground like stars against the darkened sky.

He choked on vomit. Maglor cried out and looked away, covering his face with his hand.

He had taken a full ten minutes to build up the nerve to move closer, and when he did, he had taken another ten minutes to find the courage to touch him. He felt terrible for being disgusted. He couldn’t look anymore.

He had stayed with the body while Maglor had gone to get help, and then they’d loaded him into a cart with the rest of the deceased and taken him away. He couldn’t attend the funeral. He didn’t even know if there was a funeral; all he knew was that Fingon had been recorded among the dead, and then buried somewhere, presumably.

They lived village to village, so that people wouldn’t recognise them and then, eventually, people became so used to them that they didn’t care anymore when they did. So, they made their home with the dark elves they had once been taught were lesser savages, who only cared for hunting and harming, and who turned out to be the kindest people they had ever met.

They listened when Maedhros told them his story and offered him all the counsel they could to help him through his grief. He refused it, claiming that he would manage alone. But he kept finding himself wanting to sit and write a letter to Fingon, and then remembering that he wouldn’t be there to receive it. He’d sit for hours on end, reliving and savouring ever moment of their time together- trying to keep him alive in his mind- regretting the memories he forgot, and the things he never said. He kept finding himself unable to move because what even was the point, anymore?

He wrote letters anyway- all of the things he couldn’t say while he was alive, and then he wrote letters to his mother, too, and then his father- but only one. He still couldn’t bring himself to think of Amrod long enough to write one for him.

“We can still take one of the silmarils,” Curvo was being the analysist again, “it’d be relatively easy.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” he shook his head.

“They wouldn’t risk their lives to keep some jewel without a good reason to- they’ll just give it to us.”

“Give them some time first, hell, give us some time,” he sighed.

There was never enough time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, next up is the second kinslaying (and a whole load more deaths, welp), but I might not be publishing that chapter for a good while, because I've started on Maglor's story! Maglor is probably my favourite character in the silm, so I've put a lot of effort into making his as representative of him as I can. Throughout the text, Maedhros is often favoured by the narrator, so we don't actually get much to colour him as a person, which is one of the main reasons I'm about to spend a whole 14 chapters getting to know him. 
> 
> I'm also considering making a non-romantic version of this series, since I also really enjoy the platonic bond between Maedhros and Fingon, so I'd like your input on that. I also want to pad out these stories by adding some short drabbles to this series about smaller events in their stories (eg, Maedhros' impression of Fingon's coronation, or Fingon's experience of the Dagor Bragollach) so I'd like input on that, too!


	9. Regret and Repent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros searches for the twins. He does not find them,

_Maedhros come on._

_It’s so cold._

He could feel the tingling in his fingertips as they grew numb in the cool air, stinging his nerves as he walked. He should’ve worn something to protect his hands. He hadn’t planned to do this.

_We need to bury our dead._

Their dead…three bodies retrieved from inside and out of halls ornately carved and messily stained cruel crimson. He was burning too hot to care how their dead were buried- _just throw them in the mass grave with everyone else—_ no less think about why their bodies had been found so mutilated. The numbness grew through his knuckles, his palm. The wind stung the corners of his eyes with tears.

_You’ll freeze to death._

So would they. He wouldn’t be much of a repenter if he didn’t try anyway. He hadn’t been in control- he hadn’t wanted to drag things out- he just wanted it over with and Dior was being so obstinate; why not give Tyelko the fatal responsibility? Hindsight knew why. Standing before him he had wondered of those jewels had the power to corrupt; he had never felt corrupted before the oath, not when he shared a home with them, nor when his father wore them upon his brow.

His father had promised that they would have a power unmatched in time. He never explained any further than that.

He couldn’t bring himself to pity Dior, no less his grandfather- not for those choices. They would’ve left in peace- they made it clear that they would’ve left in peace. He had to watch as a man threw away everything he owned for stolen property. He wasn’t even a noldo. He had no right.

_Maedhros, it’s useless._

One brother gone- in the thick of it, they’d killed their way to the body. Maglor cradled him against his chest- had they been that close? Or was it the same fraternal anguish that forced him to his knees to bury his head against his bloodied shoulder, cursing all of the things that would never be made right again.

If he could spare anyone that pain…

They left Amras alone to guard the body- they found Curufin outside with his neck snapped and his body flung against the stone wall, eyes open and brows raised in pain, and shock, and pure terror. They should’ve stayed closer together; they could’ve protected each other. They should’ve been closer. Wasn’t it his job to look after them, now?

He recognised these trees.

He had passed this stream before.

He saw his footprints in the snow.

He hadn’t even stopped at Caranthir’s body. He’d been expecting to see it- lying, neck cleanly slit, half in the fountain so that the red-stained water filled his mouth and tinted his skin. ‘Red faced.’ He left Maglor to deal with it. He went straight to the forest. He found his brothers servants with blades sprouting like spring flowers from their chests, bodies lying against the trunk of a tree.

And he hoped.

But his were the _only_ footprints in the snow.

_Maedhros._

His brothers called his name, pleaded with him. It wasn’t time to answer them just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Maedhros got closer to turning back, he began hearing his dead brother's voices in his head, too. I didn't make it too obvious, but that was the intent.


	10. Two sons.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros has regrets and nightmares after the third kinslaying, but at least he isn't unloved.

He took them hunting. They refused to kill (bless), but he took them with him anyway. He taught them how to lay traps, and to light fires and how to pick out the good berries and herbs from the poisonous. He wasn’t as good at it as Tyelko had been, of course, but the least he could do was try. The teaching of practical skills became his responsibility, since Maglor never left the grounds of their house- not even for menial tasks like getting supplies from the village. He would’ve been better suited for that, too; after all, he was the less recognisable one.

Maglor was their caretaker; he bathed them, cooked for them, braided their hair, cleaned their cuts and sung them lullabies when they couldn’t sleep. He had been there from the very beginning, plucking them from the ruins of their home, still wailing, careful not to let the blood still slick on his hands touch their skin.

He watched them grow; it’d been so long since he’d watched anyone grow up. He watched as they learned to use their tiny hands to hold a quill and write- as they learnt how to braid pretty patterns into each other’s hair- as they went from crawling, to walking, to running. He regretted not warming up to them sooner; it hurt him to hear them ask Maglor why their uncle didn’t like them.

It pained him even more to hear his answer- probably because he knew it was true: _you remind him of someone very dear who’s gone now._

He didn’t want to get attached- just in case. He got attached anyway.

There was something good about having small children around; they asked too many questions, and they screamed when things didn’t go their way, and they were impatient and selfish and refused to hurt a damn soul, even if it was for the best. They asked him why he couldn’t wear earrings, once, why he threaded them through the holes of a chain around his neck. He was taken aback for a moment- no one had ever asked him that before—then he realised that was probably because no one had ever wanted to hurt him.

Angband was so much longer ago than it had ever seemed; it was so far in the past that it seemed almost like a bad fever dream he’d once had that had shaken and thrown him in the past but was long forgotten to the mists of an immortal memory. It didn’t hurt him anymore to replay the memories that he’d lived through over and over in dreams for centuries- the same once he had once whispered to Fingon in the darkness of a hot summer night, where his voice couldn’t carry him the whole way through.

They were children, though, he couldn’t just _tell_ them what had happened to him. He couldn’t give them the stories behind the scars. He also couldn’t let anyone else tell his story- not even Maglor.

So, he sat them down and made them promise not interrupt, and he explained that something very bad had happened when he was a lot younger, and that he would have permanent markings on his body because of it- people captured him, and they took some things away from him, but he was okay now, even though he was still missing some of his pieces.

_Did they take your hand, too?_

That wasn’t such an easy question; he’d long ago gotten used to the absence of his appendage, and it didn’t bother him that people looked, but he would have to bring up Fingon to explain. It hurt, sure, but he wasn’t afraid to talk about him; he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop. There were layers and layers of history and context behind even the way he said his name- there was no way he could hope to do his memory justice.

So, all he said was _yes, in a way._ And the boys left him alone.

For a while, at least.

They had more questions- kids always did. They wanted to know why he kept his hair so short (they said they already knew why Maglor’s was), why he didn’t sleep as much as anyone else, and why he always wore cloaks that covered his face when they went into town. First, his hair wasn’t _that_ short, it just looked shorter compared to other elves, and he wore it like that to blend in with men (he didn’t give them the other reason). Second, he had nightmares-

_About the bad people that took things from you?_

_Yes,_ but that was a flat lie. _Those_ nightmares had faded with time; the ones that plagued him now were all images of fair hair matted with blood, and proud faces hanging at odd angles on necks, gaping red smiles along throats- tea parties with corpses, dressed up in the finest woven fabrics that existed. A brother who sat peacefully, holding his own head in his lap, watching through glassy eyes. Sometimes he chased Fingon through the forests of Aman, trying to catch up to him before he vanished into the battlefield.

And sometimes he made it, and he asked him if he was okay, and he told him that death was peaceful. He told him that he wasn’t sure when he’d come home again, but that he was trying so hard, and he’d stroke his cheek, fingers light over the scars that never seemed to fade.

 _I love you. I’m sorry._ And then he’d kiss him gently, and fade into pure light.

Sometimes the hope of speaking to him again was enough to get him to sleep, and to risk the nightmares.

The twins were sweet: they offered to let him share bed with them, so that he wouldn’t have nightmares anymore. He politely refused at first, then he kept waking up to find that they’d snuck into his bed instead.

He let Maglor explain why he needed to keep his face hidden. He expected the twins to get more distant after that, but they didn’t. He asked them what Maglor had told them once for fear that he had sugar-coated it, and they gave him a list of the names of all of the great elves whose blood was on their hands, and said they’d promised that they would never swear any oaths. Then, when they were older, Maglor would sing the story for them with every gory detail left perfectly in place and focus.

And they never faltered in their love- not once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that Fingon's actual real fea visiting Maedhros in his dreams? We shall have to see ;)


	11. Tethers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros' suicide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicide warning: it's not graphic, but it does get really deep into his thoughts before jumping.

It burnt him clean- scalding hot against him- ice cold against his skin, sharp edges slicing into the joints of his fingers. He looked Eonwë dead in the eye. He knew what he was thinking; he wasn’t going to try and stop him now.

Of all the maiar he still thought Eonwë was the most beautiful, with gentle curls and bright blue eyes of pure light that stared right through him, seeing into his mind with perfect clarity. He could see into his very essence. There was no privacy from the Valar- he knew that now. To Eonwë he was a wild creature cornered and hungry, jowls raised and snarling with a thirst for blood. They both knew about the animals that would chew through their own legs to escape traps.

He let him run.

It burnt through the layers of impurity that stained his soul- singed his palm, turned his fingertips to charcoal that crumbled in the wind.

Where could he go?

He just kept running.

Had they even planned for after they got away?

He couldn’t remember.

He hadn’t slept in weeks; dreams still haunted by smiling corpses and lost worlds that kissed his scars and let him fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness at his altar and stroke his hair with that fondness of which he was so thoroughly undeserving. It became too painful to endure.

The twins had tethered them.

Elrond asked that they wait- reconsider and consider the consequences. He felt regret in the still-wet ink of that letter- in the autumn breeze when he went to deliver it to a messenger, paid with all of the gold they had left to their names for their secrecy. He grieved when he met Gil-galad’s eyes from the top floor window of the house, remembering when they used to gaze at him with such admiration- such light. He hadn’t planned for Gil-galad to search the house after they had retrieved the boys.

He hadn’t expected the scar that ran along his strong jawline- mark of a vicious battle.

He hadn’t expected him to weep- to have to offer him comfort.

Black smoke rose from his palm, stinging the inside of his head as it wove its way through his sinuses, making his eyes water.

_Stop running- it’s over now._

Maglor’s voice echoed in his mind, but there was no passion to his words. They both knew this ended badly. Ended nonetheless. That was his fault; he kept finding premature even though they both knew as certain as the ground beneath their feet that it wouldn’t ever truly end until the day that they died- that they finally faced their fates at the side of their brothers, the kin that had paved the way for them.

He wanted to fling it away where no one could ever find it again- but there was no guarantee that any place would hold it long enough unless if he waited around to guard it himself.

Maglor had been right.

So many dead for a stupid rock he couldn’t even hold- didn’t even _want._

The twins had lost everyone because of them.

_They can’t afford to lose anyone else._

But they’d already lost their only family (however false) when he chose to cut their tether.

So many people lost for naught.

But it had always been for naught. And now they had all of the nothing that they had always chased with eyes blazing and blades shining. Maybe if he hadn’t been able to steel himself- to cut himself free with one more swipe of that shining blade—he wouldn’t have even considered it.

Maglor had been right.

If he could throw it away and surrender himself, beg for water to wash himself clean of the blood, wrists presented for binding, and live forever with an oath broken. But he couldn’t do that; there was no water that could clean him of those bloodstains; there were no people left that would let him live in bonds rather than die upon the hill. Going home wasn’t even an option. He would be consumed. There was nowhere left for him to go.

_It’s over now._

It was only over if there was a way out.

Could he risk the judgement of the Valar now that he had thrown away his last chance at mercy? Could they forgive a man repenting of his own lack of repentance? Did anything he did matter anymore- had he already passed the point of no return?

His tethers had been cut one-by-one.

The silmarils were back in the hands of his house.

The twins no longer relied on him for care.

Fingon was dead.

And he couldn’t live without him; he had always known it, but he’d been ignoring it for so long- postponing his promise until he could cut himself free of everything else. But now there was nothing holding him down- holding him to life. It occurred to him that immortality was a prison- and Mandos was a prison- and the only real freedom lay in whatever lay beyond even the realm of the Valar. It occurred to him that he had never wanted to live forever- never wanted to outlive so many others- so much more deserving of life than he was.

The only way to clean himself was with fire; the only way to free himself was to abandon life itself.

He could see Maglor watching him, almost obscured by the smoke. Maglor could take care of himself.

He was sorry.

He turned to face the rising sun.

It was so fucking bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the second ever chapter I wrote, but I reworked it pretty hard for publishing. If you aren't into stupidly happy endings, this is the point where you should stop reading (okay, I say stupidly happy, but it's more 'bittersweet'.)


	12. Happy end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros adjusts back to living, trying to pick up the pieces of the life he had once lived in Aman, the one he'd lost in Beleriand, and the one he must now make.

Some days he’d sit out on the front deck and stare straight into the sun; remember the first time he saw that light, lying in recovery, loved ones at his side. He’d watch it intently, waiting for the clouds to pass over it, but they never dimmed its glow enough for the world to grow dark. The light burned his retinas, but he didn’t care- it was light, and light was good. Sometimes when he sat, he could feel Fingon watching him from the doorway, and he’d imagine his arms folded, leaving against the doorframe, hair loose down his back (it’d been a long day). Sometimes, Fingon would come out and join him, and they’d watch the sunset together in silence- there wasn’t much left to be said. They were comfortable being quiet around each other.

He knew that they both thought the world of the other: Fingon admired his determination to help others, his commitment to his research, the joy he took in his projects. He loved Fingon’s memory, his attention to detail, his fixation with the truth, his intelligence, his bright eyes, his- well, his everything, really. He loved and admired Fingon, and he envied him, too- just a little. He’d recovered so well, and the Valar had trusted him so quickly with helping the dead. Sometimes, while they sat together, he’d rest his head on Fingon’s shoulder, and listen to his breathing.

He still had nightmares about his corpse.

Maybe that was the one thing the Valar couldn’t heal.

They claimed they could heal anything- your body, fëa, mind—but he never felt truly whole again. He wondered if he ever would. All he knew was that he was missing some part of himself, and every night it manifested again in dreams; a different brother, a different friend every time. His father. Over and over again.

His father wasn’t coming back.

That was the first thing Eonwë informed him off, back when he was still walking barefoot across the smooth, warm paving stones of Valinor, wandering up the side of Taniquetil to Manwë’s halls, looking for something even Fingon could not return to him.

_We cannot let him return, I’m sorry,_ he bowed his head- knelt before his feet. A Vala kneeling before an elf…a Fëanorian, no less- it was unheard of. He didn’t speak a response out loud, instead he took the Maia’s chin, gently lifted his face so that their eyes met. Eonwë’s eyes were pure blue light- like all Maiar, he noted, his eyes were strange, but they were glistening with tears. _I didn’t mean for this-_

_This was not your fault._

He had been taken aback- everyone knew that the eldest son of Fëanor was the quietest; it was common knowledge. He only spoke to his husband and his mother. He left Eonwë stunned- he kept wandering the continent. He finally understood why Fingon had always been so quiet and mysterious when they were young; he finally understood what it was to have a quiet mind and he wondered- he wondered if it was the healing, or maybe the relief of seeing his loved ones again, or if it was _him._ He found people who had been restored to the state they were before the flight of the Noldor; he found few that were changed. He wondered if it was something to do with how he died. He was unconventional; the Fëanturi had no way to treat him.

He was quiet in some haunting way that no one else was. He was quiet, but in his silence was a power that no one could even comprehend, let alone combat. He was scarily quiet.

His brothers came back one-by-one; the twins were already back and integrated before he showed up. After him came Caranthir, who went straight to his wife and begged for forgiveness. No one else returned, though he found himself watching the sea whenever he could, scanning for a familiar face on one of the arriving boats.

 

* * *

 

Devotee of Estë.

That was his technical title, but he was something else. He found permission to wander the halls alongside Estë’s maiar- to speak with their inhabitants when they were ready and to hear their stories. At first, he just took notes, which he brought back to Fingon, who would sort through them, deciding which would supplement the course he taught, and which would distract.

Then he met a man he had killed himself.

That young Telerin man that watched the sky above with his head almost sliced off.

He apologised first, then he sat down before him, and asked him to tell his story. And he did. And he wept, and he cursed, and he told him he wished that he was in the void as promised. He had rarely encountered such emotion, but it fascinated him. He didn’t fear the man- nor did he feel any need to fall before him and repent- his emotions were dulled while in the halls- as were all the emotions of the living that visited. He asked him why he felt that way, and he listened to the abuse that was thrown back at him, and asked again, _why?_

Why was he so angry, when all ill will was supposedly erased from their minds during their long dream? They talked together for hours. He forgot to take any notes, but he remembered every word of the conversation, and he knew what he had to do. He knew that the treatment that Estë gave was imperfect, and he knew that there would be individuals that slipped through the cracks. He devoted all of his time in the halls to finding them and talking to them; asking them who they were, and what happened to them, and how they felt, and why they felt that way.

Friend of the Dead.

That was how he was known to those who returned from the halls.

Friend of the Suffering.

He found those that the Maiar deemed unsympathetic- irredeemable. He found the descendants of orcs, and the prisoners of Morgoth- and the kinslayers and the members of the house of Fëanor that _chose_ to follow in his doom.

The orcs were all babies- the way they were bred and raised meant that they rarely reached any maturity level above that of a child, and the Valar were reluctant to reembody them because they had no idea how these individuals would find their way back. They’d have to be given the bodies of children, but they’d have no parents. No _elves_ were truly orphaned. At least one of a child’s parents would be reborn, too. All children were wanted. No _orcs_ were wanted.

He felt such an immense weight of sadness when he was among them that the one of the Maiar would arrive at his side to engage him in treatment before realising that he wasn’t one of the dead.

He appealed to Námo for them to be allowed some form of help- he got them new lives. He lost them their memories, but he got them a chance to live again, and he felt better than he had in a long time. He felt like the part of him that was missing was finally within his reach again.

He spent his time out of the halls campaigning- finding homes for all of these new children among those that were unmarried- or unable to have their own. He made a list of all of the places for these thousands of children to go. He included himself on that list.

His children were so loved- he wanted them to know that before they knew anything else. He taught them the word for ‘love’ before he taught them anything else, and he made sure that they knew every single word for feeling before they could even recognise numbers on a chalk board. He felt a little more complete, but something was still missing. He felt guilty for not being content with what he had- he felt panicked- unsure of how long he could last while one of the pieces were missing. He loved his children so much- he loved them unconditionally; watched them grow and learn to talk and walk and make something of themselves. And all the while he felt like something was missing.

Erien, the younger one, caught him staring into the sun- she asked him what was wrong. She was always too empathic- she could always feel when someone was hurt or afraid- she was still young, but she wrote lines of poetry on her bedroom wall so complex that he thought he’d stumbled into one of his memories of Maglor when they were both kids. He desperately wished that the two of them could meet. He told her he was tired, because sometimes it was easier to tell a simple lie than explain a complex truth.

 

* * *

 

It all fell back together when Elrond returned, and he caught his eyes in the middle of the street, and he couldn’t move for a good minute before he started asking him what was wrong. And he understood immediately. He understood his mother- he understood why she held him so tight when he came home- why she cried so hard.  He’d asked her what was wrong, and she told him she had no idea, and he understood at last.

He had never mourned the twins while he was healing- nor after he was reborn and sitting alone on the front deck, but seeing them again tore him into pieces, and he finally felt all of the pain he’d been missing since he sent them away so many years ago. He wouldn’t let go for a long time; Elrond let him hold him for as long as he needed, and he was grateful for that. He asked him how he made it back- the Valar took pity on him.

At first, their pity was little; he was locked in a small room filled with blood red ink within which he was submerged. He lay there alone for so long; he had no idea how much time had actually passed while he was sleeping. When the door opened, he was forced to roam the halls stained red, so that all who saw him could run in fear- so that those he had once been friend to could find him easily in the crowd- because they underestimated that; they had no idea that he was so beloved by his people. It was that which changed their minds- they cleared the ink from his form and assigned a Maia to help him. And they watched him. And they learnt.

When Elrond asked him about the halls, he didn’t tell him that; he told him that he didn’t want to talk about it- that he’d rather hear about him instead, or Maglor, if there even was any news about him.

_Just one question, then,_ Elrond smiled, _are you happy?_

And he could’ve answered a million different ways- thought through his words a thousand times over- answered in dozens of languages and dialects—instead he found himself answering without thought.

_I’m really happy._

And it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erien is the youngest of two- she's not actually an oc, either! She's listed as Fingon's child in HoME, alongside an older brother named Finbor. I thought it'd be fitting to include her here. 
> 
> Now that I've completed this fic, all that's left for now is Maglor, and boy do I have stuff for Maglor. I feel like I spent so long getting caught up with Maglor that I got a little bored with him, but now that I've taken a break and I'm at the point where I get to write my own story, I'm pretty excited again! As for Nerdanel, she's on hold until I have a solid plan for what I'm going to write with her (so far all I've got is one scene with Indis)


End file.
